Elfric turned pale as if with great mental emotion, and tried to proceed in vain.
“You are not well,” said Elgiva, anxiously.
“Not quite,” he said; and then, overcoming his feelings by a vigorous effort, while no one save Redwald suspected the true cause, he continued:
“There had been a great storm, and they had broken down the only bridge which existed for miles over a swollen river: we lost hours.”
“And yet, as your messengers told us, you arrived in time to see him leave the coast.”
“The vessel which bore him was still distinctly in sight when we stood on the sands.”
“But had you no means of following?”
“None: it was a lonely fishing village with a small harbour, and his bark was a mere fishing smack, the only one of the place.”
“I trust the sea has swallowed him,” said the king; “but there is a rumour today that he is playing the saint in Flanders with great pomp. Well, only let him show his face in England again, and the devil may pinch my nose with his tongs if I leave him a head on his shoulders: he shall be a sacrifice to your outraged dignity, my Elgiva.”
“And yours, my Edwy.”